You need to stop them. He tried again to image a cannon shell, this time trying to place the shell in the rear under the hooves of the oxen. Even doing that left him light-headed, and he rocked slightly in the saddle before recovering.
The explosion was muffled, but the rear of the wagon-turtle sagged, and the entire assembly lurched to a halt.
“Commence firing!” ordered the foot commander.
Measured shots followed, a continuous and methodical barrage that tore into the advancing rebels, but it seemed that for every man who fell another, if not two, took his place. At the same time, the shots from the mounted rifles behind the advancing foot were taking a toll on the defenders. The wagon-turtle remained in place, little more than a hundred yards away, and a squad of attackers moved up and used the shields of the turtle as a safer emplacement from which to fire at the defenders.
Alastar took a quick glance to the west, but could only see a continuing seething mass of troopers—both mounted and on foot—battling it out generally just before or around the earthworks. He thought he’d only looked away a moment, but when he looked back to the river road before him, the attackers were within yards of the remaining foot defenders. “Imagers! Darts to the attackers. Those directly in front of you! Now!”
The initial stream of darts stopped the attackers cold, but only for several moments before they began to regroup.
Alastar tried something else—just imaging a constant stream of darts across the front rows of the attackers. The darts hit with such force that the bodies of the attackers piled up into a low wall.
Another horn signal sounded, and the foot attackers opened a space in the middle, and mounted riders moved forward.
Alastar found that he was breathing hard and sweating profusely, but he turned toward Cyran and said loudly enough for his words to carry, “Image a line of pikes in front of our foot, but cover them with a concealment. You take the right side; I’ll do the left. Make sure the pikes are anchored to the road stones.”
“I can do that.”
Alastar imaged his own line of pikes in position with a concealment … and waited, blotting his forehead.
The riders thundering toward the defending foot were actually lancers, and Alastar could only hope that he’d imaged the pikes in place far enough out that the lances didn’t still strike the first ranks of the defenders. Those defenders were firing directly at the lancers, apparently to no effect, suggesting that the Westisle imagers had imaged shields for the riders.
Tired as he was getting, Alastar imaged two more cannon shells—one on each side of the stalled wagon-turtle, but right next to the outboard panels.
The resulting explosions flung a number of the riflemen from the back of the turtle and created more smoke. Alastar also noticed that one of the lancers went down from the defenders’ rifle fire, followed by another and a third—just before the horses and their riders plowed into the line of pikes. Some of the riders were flung over the pikes, where they were dispatched by the waiting foot troopers. Others scrambled clear.
Alastar, trying to conserve his strength, released his concealment on the framework holding the pikes, as did Cyran. In moments, the attacking footmen charged again, some climbing over or through the framework, while others were cut down before they could do either.
Two horn triplets sounded, and the attacking foot abruptly withdrew, but only about fifty yards. A thin line of Antiagon fire dropped onto the pikes.
While the fire seared at the wooden framework, Alastar grabbed his water bottle and took several long swallows.
Then a withering blast of rifle fire slammed into the area where Julyan and Tiranya were posted. Alastar saw the younger maitre rock back in the saddle, and as he did, a gout of Antiagon fire flared from a tightly knit group of attackers less that twenty yards from Tiranya and Julyan. Julyan’s shields collapsed and he and his mount became an instant flaring pyre.
“No!”
Alastar turned to see Chervyt spurring his horse toward the source of the Antiagon fire, his shields obviously extended and strengthened, because bodies sprayed away from him and his mount. Alastar could also see bullets ricocheting as well. As Chervyt plowed into the tight group, a huge flare of Antiagon fire shot skyward and then radiated out a good five yards in all directions. The entire area was filled with small explosions, and even from where he was, behind his shields, Alastar could feel not only the impacts on his shields, but the intense heat that accompanied the eye-searing flare of light.
He blinked, clearing his eyes, even blotting them with the back of his sleeve before he could see distinctly—only to find that the attackers who had launched the Antiagon fire that had killed Julyan had vanished in the heat of that blast. So had Chervyt!
Only a glassy circle of ice remained as a result of that interaction of Antiagon fire and Chervyt’s shields, and possibly the interaction with the rebel imager’s shields. In the warmth of the day, that ice was already turning into a foggy mist in front of the remaining attackers.
Alastar swallowed. Two young imagers gone like that. The morning before they’d been joking … and he’d envied their carefree appearance.
Still trying to hold his shields and be able to attack the oncoming attackers, Alastar released his personal concealment and imaged more darts into the attackers. As he did so, he could feel more impacts on his shields, and he glanced sideways to see a hail of bullets ricocheting off Cyran’s shields, some few of which were also striking his own shields. The impacts came so hard and fast that it was all Alastar could do to hold his shields against the onslaught.
Then an immense ball of Antiagon fire—one that had to have been imaged into being—arched down toward the center of the imagers, right toward Alastar and Cyran.
“Taryn!” shouted Cyran, “On me! Now!”
Before Alastar could say a word, his mouth opening to protest—far too late—Cyran and Taryn were charging toward the center of the attackers. Somehow, Cyran had imaged shields around the Antiagon fire and then re-imaged the mass out before himself and Taryn like a scythe of yellow-green fire, sweeping away and destroying everything before it. Abruptly, an even more brilliant flare of light coruscated though Alastar’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, followed by a soundless explosion that almost ripped him from his saddle, then shook him back and forth.
Instantly, frigid cold enveloped Alastar, and tiny needles of ice fell like miniature spears from the sky. Foggy mists swirled everywhere.
Alastar blinked, blotted his eyes with his sleeve, and, as his vision returned, tried to make out the scene before him—except there was nothing there except a thin sheet of ice stretching almost half a mille to the south and almost that far to the west.
Nothing! Not a trace of anything, not the damaged wagon-turtle, not a single rebel or mount … nothing. Nothing. Not a thing moving along or beside the river road for a half mille. No troopers, no horses, not a single bush or tree. Nothing except the ice that was already cracking … and the swirls of foggy mist that rose from it.
A half mille of ice! Alastar had never seen that before. Nor had he seen that much destruction. More than a regiment wiped out by that swathe of flame and imaging, such power that, in the end, even Cyran hadn’t been able to control it.
You did that once. But Alastar had not seen that destruction, even if he had survived. He swallowed once more. He had survived that, thirteen years ago. Now, Cyran and Taryn … they hadn’t.
He did that to save you. Not just the imagers, not just Solidar. You. Alastar’s guts twisted inside him. And Taryn went with him.
Looking to both sides, his eyes burning, Alastar could see the other eight remaining imagers, all seemingly motionless, as if frozen in incomprehension at the suddenness and magnitude of the destruction stretching southward from them.
Then he glanced to the west, where it appeared that the remaining rebels had broken and were fleeing, except for the company or less surrounding the rebel command group, who Wilkorn’s troopers almost seeme
d to be ignoring. Alastar blinked. He was having trouble focusing on the command group, and even the banners seemed fuzzy and muddy, rather than of the sharp black and crimson.
A blurring concealment!
“Imagers! On me! Hold shields! Release concealments!” Alastar wasn’t certain which imagers, if any, were still holding screen concealments, but they weren’t necessary and he wanted all of them to be able to see him.
He turned the gelding westward, moving at a fast walk, trying to move through the bodies piled here and there, while keeping his eyes on the rebel command group that seemed to be slowly edging back along the road to the hamlet north of the lake.
By the time he and the imagers were on the dirt road and within a few hundred yards of the blur-concealed rebel command group, more than a squad of mounted troopers had joined them, flanking them on each side as they closed the distance on the withdrawing rebels. Belatedly, Alastar recognized the squad leader as Remaylt, and nodded to him. From what Alastar could tell from the brief glances around and behind him, Wilkorn’s troopers held the field and were busy dealing with scattered rebels—except for a company that held the river road at the narrowest point between the marshlands and the river.
Remaylt eased his mount over near Alastar’s. “Are those rebels up ahead? The ones that are hard to see?”
“I think it’s what’s left of the command group. We need to stop them.”
“Yes, sir.” Remaylt eased away.
Belatedly, Alastar turned in the saddle and recovered his water bottle. He began to drink the dark lager, still trying not to think about Cyran … and the other three. By the time he had finished, he felt considerably better but far from as strong as he would have wished. In less than half a quint, during which time Alastar and his force had moved to within less than a hundred yards of the retreating rebels, another two mounted squads joined Alastar’s force, presumably summoned in some fashion by Remaylt.
Alastar was less than thirty yards from the rear of the rebels when the riders he pursued halted, then wheeled their mounts about. The blur concealment dropped, revealing almost a full company of troopers wearing black and crimson uniforms, doubtless Ryentar’s personal guard.
Three imagers in gray were in the second rank. While Alastar couldn’t be certain, he thought one of them was Voltyrn. He also thought he saw another figure in gray in the third rank, but he wasn’t certain.
The black-clad troopers held rifles at the ready, not quite pointed at the imagers.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“It’s over,” Alastar said. “You might as well surrender.”
“It is over,” replied Voltyrn, riding forward just slightly. “You have almost no army left, and there are thousands of High Holders who can raise yet another army … and another.”
Alastar almost asked, To what point? To get more people killed for nothing? Instead, he just said, “The time for talk is over. Surrender.”
“You might as well let us go, Alastar,” called out Voltyrn. “We’re all fresh, and it’s clear you’re having trouble just holding shields.”
“Not all of us,” returned Seliora, from where she had reined up beside Alastar on the right.
“Not at all,” added Arion from Alastar’s left.
“Arms ready!” ordered Remaylt.
Instantly every mounted trooper had his rifle aimed at the black-clad troopers.
“That won’t help,” said Voltyrn.
Alastar wasn’t about to try to image against the rebel imager, not when he could barely maintain full shields.
At that moment, Voltyrn pitched forward in the saddle, and Alastar could see an iron dart in the back of his neck. Almost instantaneously, the two imagers beside him slumped.
“Guard! Fire!” called another voice.
“Fire!” snapped Remaylt, and his troopers instantly fired. The first two ranks of Ryentar’s guard went down, as did some of those farther back.
As the first ranks dropped, and the fire from Remaylt’s men felled more of the black-clad guards, Alastar saw clearly the imager in the third rank—Bettaur—who was white-faced and swaying in the saddle, unable to do much more than stay in the saddle as the guard troopers further behind him tried to bring their rifles to bear … or to escape.
At that instant, before Alastar could react, he saw another familiar face ride forward, blade in hand, and thrust it into Bettaur, whose face contorted.
“Seliora, clamp a shield around the blond man who stabbed Bettaur.”
Bettaur froze in place, an expression resembling a twisted smile on his face.
“Surrender or die!” snapped Remaylt.” Drop your rifles!”
The surviving black-clad troopers began to do so. Alastar did not move until Remaylt’s men moved the captives away, which took surprisingly little time. Then he rode forward to the two blond men—one with blood spreading across his imager grays, leaning forward against the neck of his mount, and the other held tight by Seliora’s shields.
With Seliora on his right and Arion on his left, Alastar looked at Bettaur, taking in his white face and haggard look, and the dark circles under his eyes, realizing that the reason Bettaur hadn’t been able to protect himself was that he’d likely used the last of his energy punching the iron darts through the shields of the three Westisle imagers, something Alastar doubted either he or any of those with him could have done.
Bettaur’s eyes focused on Alastar, and he forced a smile that was mostly a grimace. He opened his mouth, trying to speak. “… was … the only way to stop them … had to make them believe … no one believed me … blackmailed … tell Linzya … love her … no traitor … never … was.” Bettaur convulsed, trying to get out a last word, before slumping forward, motionless, unbreathing.
For a moment, Alastar could say nothing. He finally looked at the second blond man who still held a bloody blade in his hand, unable to drop it, so tight was he held by Seliora’s shields.
“Loosen the shields,” Alastar told Seliora. “Let him speak.”
She did, and the bloody saber dropped to the trampled dirt of the road below.
“We seem to meet in the situations where you have the advantage, Maitre Alastar.” Ryentar’s use of Alastar’s title was sardonically dismissive.
“You killed Bettaur. You cut him down from behind, but then, you’ve always maneuvered from behind.”
“He betrayed me.”
“Opposing you wasn’t betraying you, not when you blackmailed him into helping you.”
Ryentar grinned. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“He was the best of you, and you killed him.”
“He was just another imager. He wasn’t one of us.”
“But he was, Ryentar. You didn’t know it, but he was your brother.” Alastar smiled sadly. “You tried to kill your older brother and your sister. You killed your mother, I’m sure, and, in the end, you killed your younger brother.”
“If it weren’t for you,” Ryentar said, again dismissively, as if he had not even heard Alastar’s words, “it would have worked.”
“And you killed your own brother because it didn’t. What did that gain you?”
“No one betrays me. No one.”
Alastar imaged an iron dart through Ryentar’s left eye into his brain and watched him stiffen and then slump lifelessly in the saddle. Then he looked past the imagers to Remaylt. “We’ll need this body as proof that High Holder Regial was here and was in command.” At least, nominally.
“Yes, sir.” Remaylt’s voice was flat.
“Squad leader,” Alastar said gently and firmly, “this is the second time Ryentar has caused the needless deaths of imagers and thousands of troopers innocent of anything except following orders. I had no intention of allowing the possibility of a third time. And, since we are within a hundred milles of L’Excelsis, his life was already forfeit by regial edict.”
“I didn’t know that, sir.”
“I didn’t expect that you would. I’m also thankful for al
l the support you and your men have provided. Without it, matters could have gone otherwise.” Alastar inclined his head.
“We’ll take care of the body, sir.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Alastar turned the gray so that he could face the surviving imagers, nodding to Seliora and then to Arion. “We need to head back, just in case we missed something.”
Once the imagers were re-formed, Alastar started back along the dirt road, flanked immediately by Arion and Seliora. Akoryt brought up the rear of the imagers, riding beside Remaylt at the head of the three squads the squad leader had gathered in the effort to catch Ryentar.
“It doesn’t look like there’s much left to have missed.” Arion gestured toward the river, where the only moving figures appeared to be the regular army troopers.
“Perhaps not, but I also need to meet with Wilkorn, just in case.”
Arion nodded, then said in a lower voice. “All that you said to the High Holder … that was true, wasn’t it?”
“I wasn’t entirely convinced that he killed his mother. I said that to get his reaction. The fact that he didn’t protest…”
“… means that he did,” finished Seliora firmly.
“You were wondering why we had to pursue Ryentar immediately, weren’t you?” Alastar asked Arion.
“I did wonder, I have to admit.”
“If he had escaped, he would have claimed that he wasn’t there, and that the High Holders took his colors without his permission … and he could easily have gotten off without paying for all this. Could you imagine the outcry if Lorien had executed him without proof?”
“But you killed him…”
“It’s not the same. He died in the battle, after killing an imager.”
Arion nodded, then asked, “Do you believe what Bettaur said?”
“It must be true, mustn’t it?” asked Alastar, his voice gentle. “Even Ryentar admitted it. And Bettaur killed the leader of the rebel imagers when it would have been difficult, if not impossible for us to do it without losing more imagers and troopers.”
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